


Empathy

by CaesariDiffidimus



Category: Fear the Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Parents, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Sexual Abuse, nick misreads troy, remorseful nick (at the end), troy is fragile af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaesariDiffidimus/pseuds/CaesariDiffidimus
Summary: Nick wants to teach Troy a lesson to put him in his place.





	Empathy

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever. Wasn't something I was into until FTWD fucking cursed us all with how almost gay Troy/Nick were and then proverbially punched us all in the face when they killed Troy.
> 
> Not sure if this will be a one-shot or not (probably, but on the upside I'll definitely write more about them, it just may not correlate to this specific narrative. 
> 
> Didn't edit this, because I'm a lazy piece of shit human.   
> Cheers

 

Nick watched Troy. These days it seemed like all he ever did was watch Troy. The only difference was whether he was proverbially babysitting him, so he wouldn’t endanger anyone, or merely watching him out of perverse curiosity; right now, it was the latter. Troy sat beside a couple militia guys of whom Nick could not recall their names, they seemed to all be the person anyway, without distinguishing characteristics, so how was he to tell them apart? He watched one of them hover their hand over Troy’s shoulder, then think better of it, and dropped the hand awkwardly to his side, shiftily stuffing it in his pant pocket in a vain attempt to look more comfortable. Nick thought this curious since Troy spoke as though the militia were closer brothers than he and Jake, but then again, maybe they were, and maybe that’s why he knew not to touch Troy. Now that he thought about it, to his own disappointment since he prided himself on being intuitive, Jake rarely touched Troy either, not unless he was reprimanding, controlling his violence, or harboring him like a human-shield from their father.

   Nick swung both legs over the bench he was sitting on, and leaned against the picnic table behind him, whereon Alisha and Jake sat, talking of some cottage somewhere. Nick wasn’t sure why he made this motion, as it wasn’t any more comfortable than his previous position. He briefly thought perhaps he wanted Troy to see him watching him, to make him mentally squirm under his narrowed, scrupulous eye, to make his cheeks flush, his palms dampen with nervous sweat, and his lips twitch anxiously into a crooked, hopeful smile, as he tried to cover his innate discomfort.

   But Troy did none of those things.

   Alternatively, the older boy caught Nick’s eye, and his expression of feigned interest in the story being told at the table was interrupted, and the anxiety and confusion he felt was apparent on his face, as his previous cocksure expression fell quick as rain from the heavens. Troy tried to avert his eyes, but when Nick caught his attention again, he smiled facetiously at him. Troy did not smile back.

   Nick had not anticipated the other boy being so inept to mask his feelings. Everyone thought Troy to be a clinical psychopath, and to adhere to that narrative, Nick assumed one might be extraordinarily better at masking one’s emotions. But perhaps he was only a second-rate sociopath, and Nick’s unabashed scrutiny was too confusing for Troy to compute. After-all, he was a social cast-out, he’d rarely left the ranch, he had no friends, Jake had left to college for a large chunk of his life, he was not worldly, cultured, or educated, he had nearly no coping tools to better handle his needs and urges, and he seemingly had a horribly stressed relationship with both living family members, none of that would have prepared him to handle the passive-aggressive judgments of strangers.

   Troy’s eyes flicked from Nick, to his hands, resting idly in his lap. He tried to smile once more, to convince the table that he was undistracted, to convince Nick he was unnerved, and to convince himself he was not weak. But he was weak. His act didn’t last long. A moment passed, and the older boy stood, excused himself, and, thumbing his palm nervously, made his exit, bee-lining toward the Otto house.

   Nick couldn’t help but crack a small, victorious smile. The same Otto who had threatened to kill his family, he who had tied him up to watch the horrors of other captures being murdered, he who had been the cause of so much strife and death, whimpered away to his room to sulk because of a mere _look_ Nick gave him. It was hard to subdue the pang of achievement that fluttered in his chest.

   Nick stood. It was now his turn to make excuses, and his turn to head toward the Otto house. Big Otto was out in the fields, surveying something, Nick couldn’t remember what he’d said at breakfast, it hadn’t mattered at the time. Nick found himself hoping it took Big Otto all day, because he was about to put himself in a rather compromising situation with his youngest son. Nick briefly thought _not that Big Otto cared what happened to his son_ , but recanted it as cruel, and unhelpful. He didn’t know them well enough—he didn’t know any of them well enough—to make that conclusion. Maybe he cared in his own way, but simultaneously had come to terms with the base nature of his second son, and didn’t have the energy any longer to fight it.

   He feared that Jake would see him enter the house, and come in after, wanting to ask what he needed. Good ol’ Jake was always helpful like that, so Nick walked toward the back of the house and entered through a screen door on the back porch. He had been in the house several times before and knew where Troy’s room was. More often than not, the older boy stayed in the militia barracks, probably thinking it was better for morale, and maybe it was, but Nick couldn’t imagine everyone in the militia was so stupid that they genuinely thought Troy a strong leader, worthy of influencing them.

   Nick held the screen door, so it wouldn’t slam closed, and slowly let it rest on the door jam, before venturing further into the house. He looped through the dining room, kitchen, and Otto’s office, before concluding that Troy must be in his bedroom. Thus far his plan was going smoothly.

   The bedroom door was firmly closed, no shadows moved under it, no sound permeated dully through the paper-thin walls, it was as though no one was inside. He breathed in. And out. Nick opened the door with singular authority, and found that, indeed no one was inside. But he had seen Troy come in to the house, he was certain of at least that. For a moment he felt as though he’d been tricked, which was unfair, because Troy surely had no idea he was being followed. Suddenly he realized he knew exactly where Troy was, (which was of minimal consolation since he had already thought that and been wrong).

   Nick ascended the stairs, and though the door at the top was closed, he could see shadows of feet pacing in earnest, their long sinewy silhouettes cast onto the floor by the rays of sun beaming through the room’s only window. Nick smiled to himself once more, and quietly stepped onto the landing. This time he found himself almost nervous to open the door, but he swallowed hard, straightened his posture, and pushed the door open with as much authority as he could muster.

   Troy stood on the other side of the threshold, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, hands wringing each other as he’d done when he realized Nick was staring at him, stance wide but faltering as he unconsciously stepped backward.

   Nick stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “Why are you in Jake’s room?” He asked, looking around as if to gesture his question.

   “I can be in here if I want,” he said defensively, like a panicked child caught in a dubious act. “He’s my brother after all. Why are you in here?” The last question nearly held the same dominant, nonchalant, undertone that he’d had back at his camp—almost.

   Nick closed the gap between them, grabbing Troy by the shoulders when he tried to step back, away from him. Troy looked startled, like a cornered animal, both fearful, and violent. Nick could admit the boy interested him; pricked his curiosity, but namely he found him repulsive. Sometimes Nick felt they were similar, but Nick was merely selfish and young—Tory was cruel and void of empathy. Though he didn’t look cruel now. Nick squeezed his shoulders and guided him backwards until his calves hit Jake’s bed, and he clumsily sat down on it.

   Nick slid a hand up his shoulder to wrap loosely around his throat. “You’re not a good person, Troy,” he said quietly; almost a whisper.

   Troy shook his head weakly. “I’m not bad,” his voice cracked. He seemed to be saying it as much to himself as to Nick.

   Nick struck him hard across the face. His hand stung, but the sensation of expending anger on someone who he hated, on someone who deserved it, was satiating on such a base level, and he could not deny it.

   Troy pressed a cool hand to his reddened skin but didn’t look up at Nick again.

   “You _are_ bad. You’re cruel, and disgusting, and unnatural,” Nick continued. “Through all the shit you’ve done, somehow no one ever thought to get you on a leash.” Nick grabbed Troy’s face, squeezing his jaw hard, and pushed him backward so that he was laying on the bed. In one quick motion he flipped him over, and leaned down on top of him, so the other boy was trapped between him and the bed. Thus far Troy made no motion to interrupt Nick, or fight him, which Nick briefly noted was curious in and of itself. He had imagined this moment for some time, but he must admit, he hadn’t imagined it being anything like this. He had envisioned Troy being violent like a caged animal, he had envisioned having to fight for the high ground, to dominate—but this—this was not what he had envisioned.

   Nick, while swirling the reminiscence of his previous notions around in his head like wine, slowed his breathing, and pressed himself so he was almost entirely flush with Troy, and noticed, even through the other’s bulky clothes, that he was trembling. Troy Otto; sociopath extraordinaire, was trembling like a small dog. Nick dug deep for some semblance of empathy, he would have even settled for sympathy, but he found none. He felt a brief tug at the pit of his stomach, guilt perhaps, but it went away quick as it came. Suddenly he found himself insatiably curious about these tremors and tremblings, and slipped a cold, callused hand up the back of the taller boy’s shirt, crawling lightly under his jacket, and over his edged hip. Troy tensed noticeably, and Nick squeezed his hip almost painfully, keeping his hand there a moment before letting it wander further under his clothes.

   Troy’s breath hitched, and quickened, and hitched again as Nick’s long fingers made their way up his back, down his ribs, and finally slipping between the sheets and his stomach, and roughly, though with expertise, unclasped the woven belt there. Troy’s arms were propped up on elbows at either side of his head, loosely locked there as if he were covering his ears from an intrusive sound. Nick could hear Troy’s unsteady breath hitting the sheets pressed against his mouth, he could hear every exhale grate against his throat like it was clawing its way out, using every ounce of its energy to escape—or rather like it didn’t want to escape at all.

   Nick found himself once more wondering why the murderous wretch before him didn’t fight, but it was just as brief as the guilt had been, and with an audible tug, as if physically forcing himself out of his thoughts, he yanked Troy’s jeans down below his rear.

   Troy’s breath became more sporadic, faster, more anxious. But he still did not move. He still did not speak. His hands were curled into fists, knuckles white, trying to stop their shaking, but it was as if the energy just forced its way down his arms, hot—but cold—like the thin, livid cut of a razor, down, down, down his arms, and buried itself in his chest where it burned hotter until it sent all the pent up shaking to the rest of his body. He shook so badly that the buckle of his belt jangled and clinked where it hung loosely off the bed. Nick must have found that annoying because he grabbed the belt and made to rip it out, but it caught on a belt-loop, Troy could feel him getting annoyed, but he did not move. Suddenly the belt loop gave, and the belt flung free.

   Nick stood, pulling the other boy’s pants down the rest of the way until they were pooled at his feet. He found, in the seconds it was gone, that he missed the other boy’s heat, he missed the contact with his body. Was he that alone? That out of practice? He leaned back over Troy, stuffing his hands under the other boy’s belly, and unzipping his heavy canvas jacket. Nick pulled at the collar roughly, jostling, and jerking. Troy didn’t help at all, but perhaps he should have, because it had proved more difficult to remove than Nick assumed, and he ended up roughly freeing one arm, then yanking the rest of the jacket to the opposite side of the last entrapped arm, jerking it violently in the wrong direction, pulling a _yip_ and whimper from Troy.

   Troy cautiously pulled the arm under him and curled it against his chest comfortingly.

   Nick tried not to notice.

   The wind howled outside, slapping against the windows and roof like a pack of wild animals. Flecks of dirt tapped against the glass like bugs, and the distraction reminded him that he needed to get this done with before someone came up here. He doubted, with how busy Jake was, that he would be in his room at this time of day, but there was always the chance that he would need something up here, and either he, or someone else, would come to fetch it.

   With renewed vigor for justice, Nick pressed himself back down flush against Troy’s back until his lips were close to the other boy’s ear, his forearm pressed hard against the trapped boy’s neck. The taller boy smelled of sweat, and gun oil, and sawdust, and in different circumstances Nick might have found that attractive, because he had to admit—it smelled rather good—but this was the man who had intended to kill him, and Luciana, he had gotten his step-dad killed, and he had tried to kidnap his sister and mother, not to mention he’d killed an unknown tally before them. He deserved this. Beatings, exile, ostracization, rejection, friendlessness, none of this had made Troy feel punished, but this would—this was justice.

   Nick twisted his face into a vengeful scowl, spit in his free hand, rubbed his dick a couple times, and pressed it against Troy’s entrance. Troy visibly tensed, straining himself to flatten against the mattress, his free hand gripping the sheets hard. Nick pushed against him a couple times until the tight muscle couldn’t help but open just enough to let him in. Then he pushed hard. Nick pressed his arm hard against the back of Troy’s neck, his free hand moving from his dick to rest above the other boy’s shoulder to get momentum and pushed all the way in until his already clammy skin slapped dutifully against Troy’s, colder, goose-fleshed skin. Troy’s trembling became nearly spastic now, legs jerking and tensing, hand gripping wildly at the sheets, his head came off the bed for a second, before tucking his chin in, and pressing his forehead into the bed. Nick thought he was holding back a sound, but he was wrong, the sound was just lodged in his throat, startled, not ready to make it’s exist, too confused, too overwhelmed. Troy made a choking sound, breathed in raggedly, and with the exhale he audibly sobbed.

   Nick instinctively glanced at the door, but it was still closed. When he looked back, Troy’s free hand was reaching back, pressing its palm against Nick’s hip. Nick was leaning up now, he hadn’t realized he’d moved, and rhythmically rolled his hips in and out, he hadn’t noticed that either. He felt like shaking his head to clear it of this proverbial cloud but was mostly sure it wouldn’t help. He scrubbed a hand over his face, knocked Troy’s hand out of the way, and went to work, gripping Troy’s hips painfully.

   Nick pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in to the hilt. It didn’t even feel good, but the sounds Troy made every time he did it made it almost impossible not to do. He did it again—and again. Troy had pulled his wounded arm up and was biting down on it hard to stifle the pained sounds he was making. In the beginning it had hurt Nick’s dick to be this rough with no lube, but Troy had almost instantly started to bleed from not being properly stretched, and now he was bleeding quite adequately, that the journey from the cold air to his warm insides, was slick, and hot.

   He was almost there. He could feel it welling up. Nick grabbed Troy by the scruff of his hair and lifted his head, so he could no longer stifle his sounds against his arm. He could see the teeth marks there now, speckles of pooled blood, the skin was livid with agitation, and slick with spit. Nick held his head up and turned it at a slight angle so he could see the side profile of his face. Tears were fresh on his cheeks, his eyes were blotchy, and red, and downcast, refusing to look up at him, his lips quivered and twitched, speckled with blood like his arm. Nick slowly pushed his dick all the way inside him, but when Troy did nothing but make a muffled mewing sound, he pushed three fingers in with his dick, and before he was even to the first knuckle Troy was violently trembling, his lips parted audibly, and a choked whimper proceeded a pathetic groan.

   Nick kissed his ear, relishing the feeling of his cool flesh trembling against his own. The whimpers dissipated after a moment, so Nick pushed his fingers all the way in. He could feel the older boy’s sphincter popping and tearing around his knuckles. Troy was shaking uncontrollably, his mouth open, though no noise came out. Nick pulled his dick out, left the fingers snuggly in place, and slammed home, hard. Troy sobbed. Nick stuffed his member into him, slamming it again and again until his balls got tight, and he exploded his seed inside the sociopath’s body. Nick convulsed briefly, pushing in and out of him a couple more times before his dick was flaccid.

   He pulled out and stepped back, observing his punishment dutifully—almost pridefully. Troy’s buttock, and thighs were a mess of semen and blood. He was sobbing as he had been before, but now that he was empty save for the spunk, the sobs were dissipating.

   Nick thought punishment would make him feel better, but it didn’t, he felt nothing. The more he looked upon the other man’s body, the more he felt sick, and the more he hated Troy.

   “Get up,” he ordered.

   Troy pushed himself shakily upward, walking his hands back so he could stand without sitting on his backside. His posture was slumped, he looked small, and weak. Slowly he sank to the floor to pull up his jeans, but when he got them around his waist, his hands were trembling so violently that he couldn’t button them or buckle the belt. He fumbled desperately, but nothing came of it, and his continued anxiety over not being able to do it, just made the trembling worse. Nick reached out to do it for him, mostly out of annoyance, but Troy flinched away so hard he nearly fell backward. Unfortunately for Troy, this only fueled Nick’s vexation. Nick grunted a sound of disapproval, slammed Troy hard against the wall, the corner of it jabbing into his back painfully, and quickly did up his jeans.

   Nick stepped back and observed Troy. The older boy was wringing his hands, eyes flicking from Nick to the bed where a prominent blood stain now was. Nick smirked at that. He’d love to see Troy explain that away, but he didn’t have the time to stay. Nick turned to leave.

   “I…” Troy’s voice cracked. It sounded wet and strained from crying. Nick stopped but didn’t turn around. “Was it… were you…” Troy was wringing his hands nervously, swaying his weight from one foot to the other. He was still crying, but the sobbing and whimpering had stopped. “Just… was—I mean—did you…”

   Nick swung around, interrupting his incoherent ramblings. Troy flinched and stepped backward hastily, bumping into the desk behind him. He was afraid. He was afraid and Nick could see it in his eyes like a picture painted there, or flames from a fire reflected on the glass of his pupil.

   Nick shrugged nonchalantly. “It was like fucking a dog.”

   Troy flinched, and nodded. Nick watched him curl even further into himself, eyes welling up anew, trying to look down to hide his shame, but the tears fell anyway. Nick once more tried to sympathize.

“Troy!” a man’s voice bellowed through the house. Big Otto. This time both Nick and Troy jumped.

   Nick cursed, looking around the room frantically before yanking open the closet doors and sliding inside amongst clothes and boxes. The closet doors were slatted, so he could see Troy on the other side across the room, wringing his hands, breathing heavily, eyes wild and panicked.

   Suddenly the door swung open.

   “Troy, goddamnit, I know you heard me, I…” he trailed off.

   Big Otto stepped cautiously into the room, and at first Nick thought he was looking at his youngest son.

   “What is this?” He asked, his voice having dropped several octaves.

   He was pointing at the blood on the bed. The color drained from Troy’s face.

   “I-I had an accident; cut m-myself. I’m sorry.” Troy’s voice was small and insignificant.

   “Troy, you have no sense of boundaries or property. Why are you even in here? Huh?” A finger stabbed itself at Troy’s chest hard enough to make him step backward unsteadily. “You can get blood on your goddamn sheets all you want. You think because it’s in your reach you can take it, but you can’t, you do what you want out there in the city, but this is my house, boy.” Another stab to the chest. Troy whimpered, and Nick could tell he was going to cry again. Too much, too soon, he couldn’t hold that against him. But his dad could.

   Big Otto laughed and stepped back, clapping his hands together facetiously. “Are you gonna cry! Jesus Christ, you’re just like her. Weak—always fucking crying and sniveling. I thought maybe you’d grown out of that but I guess I was wrong.” He laughed harshly, less out of humor as it was out of pure unadulterated cruelty and malice toward his son. “Go ahead, cry, but first clean up this fucking mess.” Big Otto grabbed Troy roughly by the front of his shirt and threw him in the general direction of the bed. Troy cowered there on the floor, not moving, which seemed to only enrage Big Otto more, because he half-heartedly kicked him, hissing orders to have it cleaned up before nightfall.

   After he left Troy gingerly got up, kneeling in front of the bed, slowly peeling back the top blanket, and wadding it up in his arms.

   Nick exited the closet, watching Troy closely. The older boy stopped, seemingly waiting for Nick to say, or do something. He didn’t do anything. He was done here. He’d done what he came here to do. Nick observed the broken thing in front of him; Troy looked dejected and confused as if he didn’t quite understand why Nick was still angry. Finally, he felt a small, minute shred of sympathy—then he exited, jogging down the stairs quickly, leaving Troy to clean up the blood and spunk on the linens, and to gather what was left of his dignity and self-worth which lay like shattered glass on his brother’s bedroom floor.

 

Later that night Nick was leaning against a tree by the pavilion where they all ate. It was late and most the Ranch’s inhabitants had sauntered off to bed, or in the Militia’s case, were on their nightly patrol. Nick had stolen several cigarettes from whoever left their rucksack on one of the picnic tables, and was smoking one, breathing the corrosive smoke into his lungs, and holding it there each time, enjoying the comfortable stinging warmth of the tobacco.

   A dark silhouette of a woman walked from behind the Otto house to an RV, another person walked from the RV’s to the well, filling two jugs, and walked back. Nick paid minimal attention to either of them, in fact to most people around him, until he saw Troy walk from a parked truck to the Otto home’s porch. The tuck’s headlights flicked off, Nick chastised himself internally for not spotting a truck driving in his direction, at night. He was safe here, but that was a pretty big blunder for someone living in this Book of Revelations kind of world. He needed to stay alert, and watchful, and so in his mind he lathered his pride and laziness in self-deprecating curse words before turning his attention back to Troy.

   Troy had ascended the couple steps up the porch, his hand reached for the screen door, but it was opened by someone else before he could wrap his fingers around the steel hardware. Jake emerged so quickly that Troy jumped. Nick couldn’t make out Jake’s face clearly enough from this distance to determine his emotional state, but he assumed he was angry, because just after he came through the threshold he was nose-to-nose with Troy—or rather he would be had Troy not slouched, shrinking into himself like he had in front of Nick earlier.

   Nick was in the wake of night’s shadow, which engulfed the trees beside the pavilion where Nick stood under the tree, clear up against the side of the Otto home. Nick appreciated the cover of darkness and put it to use as he creeped closer to the house until he could see the frown etched into Jake’s face, and the worried expression on Troy’s.

   “What were you looking for!” Nick could hear Jake ask Troy. He must have inquired firstly as to why Troy was in his bedroom, information he assumedly got from his biased father.

   Troy’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

   “Don’t you fucking lie to me,” Jake seethed through clenched teeth. He poked a finger hard into Troy’s chest. “What you were looking for!” Troy was wringing his hands nervously, again, like he’d done before. He had patterns it seemed. However, unlike before, wherein Troy wouldn’t meet Nick’s eyes, he was staring wide-eyed into Jake’s, his eyes darting up and down quickly as if looking from Jake’s glare, to his bared teeth. Jake stepped closer to him quickly. “What were you fucking _looking_ for!” with the last couple words Jake pushed Troy hard in the chest. Troy stepped back to try and balance himself but there was nowhere to plant his feet, as he was at the edge of the topmost stair.

   Troy tumbled backward, landing hard on his back. He let out huff as he landed, followed by a pained sound. Troy scrambled backward a pace but did not make to stand up. Jake was on him like a cat on a mouse, stepping off the porch in one leap, leaning over Troy, his arm jutted out quickly, and just as quickly the younger brother’s jaw was squeezed uncomfortably in his hand. Troy’s own hand darted up to wrap nonthreateningly around the wrist. It must have been instinct because he made no attempt to wrestle it free.

   “What were you looking for!” Jake asked again, this time his tone low and menacing. He sounded tired, but not physically tired like after a long day’s work, he sounded situationally tired like he was exhausted and vexed over doing the same thing over and over obligatorily but getting the same benign results. As if dealing with Troy’s antics was what was tiring him, and he was coming to a precipice in his life where he had to make a decision, and that decision was not looking good for Troy.

   Troy shook his head slightly, confined still in his brother’s iron grip. “N-nothing.”

   Jake scoffed at him, but released his jaw, though with a harsh flick of his wrist so that Troy’s head snapped to the side violently. A brief lapse in control, Troy thought, or unabashed anger and loathing. He hadn’t thought the brother’s disliked each other so, and maybe it was only one-sided, because if anyone asked him he would confess that he thought Troy both admired and envied his brother’s strengths and relative normalcy as a human being.

   Jake was standing now, his hands on his hips. His expression changed slightly from lividity to dismissive disgust. To Nick this seemed like a gross overreaction. What could possibly be so important in Jake’s room that it would set him off like this? Or was it not a singular physical thing, but just the fact that he had come into Jake’s private space without invitation. Alisha used to come into his room all the time, whether he was in there or not, and he knew she did, and it never bothered him because it was his sister, and your sibling being in your room was like having an extension of yourself in your room. He supposed when siblings didn’t get along that understanding might not be so, though.

   Without warning Jake turned and stormed inside. Nick thought he had retired to bed, Troy must have thought that too because when Jake threw open the screen door so hard that its springs overextended, and it smacked with a loud crack against the side of the house, Troy jumped and scrambled backward momentarily. Jake approached him with the hostility of beast setting upon carrion, and threw something in Troy’s direction. Nick hadn’t noticed he had carried anything out of the house at all, but he supposed it was quite dark now. Troy had covered his face with his arms quickly just before the item shrouded him without a sound.

   “You left this,” Jake spat.

   It was Troy’s jacket. Maybe Big Otto hadn’t informed on Troy’s whereabout earlier after all, Nick thought, Troy had negligently left evidence behind, the idiot. Nick’s mouth cut into a thin, wry, unconscious smile. He couldn’t help but be amused.

   Jake stood over his younger brother but said nothing. Troy was still gaping like a fish, eyes wide and worried, Nick sensed he was close to tears, though he admittedly could not see close enough to tell. Jake made a sudden movement, Troy flinched in reaction, which had seemingly annoyed Jake because his face pulled back into an even deeper, sharper mask of irritation. He likely didn’t like being made to feel like the villain, Nick thought. Jake reached down and grabbed a handful of Troy’s shirt, and with a tearing sound, hauled him up to his feet.

   “I…” Troy started after Jake pushed him hard up against his truck, letting go of his now crumpled t-shirt. “I…” he repeated, but trailed off again. He looked panicked, as if his inability to talk frightened him as much as it annoyed Jake, or perhaps Jake had never been this rough with him before, Nick and he didn’t know how to handle his brother’s sudden unchecked rage.

   Jake scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, the tenseness of his vexation melting away like hot wax. “Just get the fuck out of here, Troy,” he said, his voice muffled through the hand that tiredly covered his face.

   Troy nodded, though his brother couldn’t see it. “I-I washed the blanket,” Troy finally said lamely.

   Jake grabbed him by the back of his shirt and shoved him away from the truck, and the house. Troy’s arms flailed as he tried to keep balance, but it was in vain. He stumbled forward and landed on a knee first, then the rest of the momentum of his brother’s strength propelled him forward just enough that he faltered again and fell sprawled out. Troy recovered quickly and scrambled to curl protectively on his side, so he could see Jake, but not anger him again by getting up.

   “Just—fuck off, Troy—please.” With that he walked back up the stairs, the porches yellow light making his skin look dirty and jaundiced, then he was inside the house, not bothering to close the door behind him.

   Nick watched him. He thought Troy might start crying, but he didn’t, instead, to Nick’s surprise, he began talking to himself.

   Troy wiped his eyes roughly with the inside of his shirt. “You’re so fucking stupid,” he chastised himself, pulling his knees up, and resting his arms limply over them. “Why can’t you just be fucking normal,” he asked into the cool air around him. His hands ran through his hair and curled into frustrated fists there.

   As Nick watched him, a wave of something warm and new came over him and wrapped snuggly around his chest. A tight knot formed in the pit of his stomach, and as if that knot had a string tightly anchored to various organs, the proverbial string tugged at his heart, and the ache in his gut only got worse, and worse. Guilt. Fuck.

   Nick stood and fetched the other boy’s jacket from the ground by the truck. He flexed his hand nervously around the jacket’s rough fabric a couple times, unsure why he was nervous at all, doubly unsure if it was indeed nervousness he was feeling. He assumed Troy didn’t notice him pick up his jacket, because the older boy didn’t raise his head to acknowledge him.

   Nick swung the jacket to gently tap against Troy’s shins to get his attention. Troy startled, and once again was sprawled on his back, for the umpteenth time that day. Troy looked scared, but quickly recovered, and manually wiped the emotions off his face. Nick dropped the jacket over his lap. Troy leaned back up to a sitting position, thumbing the jacket deliberately, averting his gaze from Nick’s.

   “Could you…” Troy started, cleared his throat, and tried again, “…could you—next time—not…I mean if there’s a next time—just—if… I don’t know,” he stopped again, glancing upward to read Nick’s current emotions, but his face didn’t show any. Troy dropped his gaze again. Nick noticed him square his shoulders, desperately kicking his proverbial feet out for solid ground on the hypothetical territory between them. “If you do… _that_ —if _we_ do _that_ again, just… could we do it maybe not in Jake’s room? Maybe not—um—just maybe not in the house at all.” He finally finished. The words sounded crammed and heavy and cumbersome like someone trying to fit a giant ball through a tiny hole. His voice was strained and tired, and the sound of it made the tight knot in Nick’s stomach reappear.

   The knot felt like weakness.

   “You think I wanna fuck you again?” Nick forced a laugh.

   Troy glanced up at him briefly, but long enough that Nick could see his eyes were red-rimmed and glossy. He shook his head once, sharply, as if to say, “ _of course not.”_

   Against Nick’s better judgment he knelt down, and with an energy, and passion that was almost not his own, pressed his hand against Troy’s shoulder, and pushed him to the ground. The older boy did not resist. Nick swung a leg over Troy so his knees were on either side of him, and leaned close to his face, the other boy’s hot breathe on his cheek. Nick could see the fear and confusion in Troy’s eyes. If Nick were to be honest with himself, he had no idea what he was doing, or why he was doing it.

   The vigor of the out-of-body energy returned, and with the same dubious knowledge of whether it was him, or a spirit inhabiting his body, he leaned down and pressed a gentle, deliberate kiss to Troy’s lips. He felt Troy flinch, and whimper against the contact, but he didn’t move away. Nick’s hand wrapped lightly around Troy’s throat, nonthreateningly, but with purpose.

   Troy trembled against him the same as he had before. Nick liked it, he realized, it made him feel almost protective over the other boy, if only in a base animalistic, assertion-of-dominance kind of way. Nick deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue delicately across Troy’s bottom lip. Finally, Troy kissed back. He was tentative, and his lips trembled just as the rest of his skin, and Nick couldn’t tell if he kissed back because he wanted to, or because he didn’t know what else to do. Honestly, Nick didn’t care—it felt good to kiss someone again.

   Nick slid a cool hand up Troy’s shirt, but was met with a startled jerk, and two hands frantically grabbing at his shirt to push it back down. Nick grinned against his mouth and pushed himself up on his hands so could see Troy’s face. Troy wouldn’t look at him, even when Nick strained his head to meet his eyes. Nick watched closely, and without looking away, pushed Troy’s hand aside, and slid his cold hand back up his shirt, willowing up his stomach. Troy worked his jaw, his eyes still downcast. The corner of Nick’s lips tugged downward as if to say “ _interesting”_ like he was commencing some sort of psychological research, and Troy was his subject.

   To further said research, Nick removed his hand from the other boy’s shirt, and changed directions, sliding his finger tips down the front of Troy’s jeans. Troy’s breath caught. His hand whipped around surprisingly fast, and grabbed Nick’s wrist firmly. He was looking at him now. Their eyes were locked on each other, and Nick was smiling wildly, a stark contrast against Troy’s pained, fearful expression.

   “Please,” Troy croaked. Nick frowned at him curiously. “I haven’t…” Troy’s eyes dropped, but his grip on Nick’s wrist was still vice-tight. His lips moved minutely as he scrambled to come up with both a reasonable excuse, and a feasible resolution. “I-I haven’t—you can do it later. I haven’t cleaned myself.” Troy’s words sounded both foreign, and somehow trained, as if he’d memorized them. They didn’t sound like they were coming from Troy at all, more like a recording that Troy was expertly lip-syncing, Nick thought.

   “Please,” Troy begged again, quieter now, barely a whisper, but his eyes met Nick’s once more, and they begged twice as desperately as his words, and Nick couldn’t help but comply. He wasn’t a complete monster, after all. And all of this was to serve justice to Troy, who was the true monster, if Nick partook in activities that even Troy wouldn’t do, he would then be the one in need of punishment.

   Nick pushed himself off the ground, and without looking back, walked away, leaving Troy alone, and confused for a second time that day.


End file.
